Hindsight's Twenty-Twenty
by Asidian
Summary: Working through Matt's issues isn't an overnight job. Lucky for him, Foggy's willing to come back and give it a second try. (The "A Lot to Unlearn" series: Hands, An Act of Abandonment, Forward, and Hindsight's 20/20)
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: If you want to dive in without reading the other fics in the series, all you really need to know is this is happening post Nelson v. Murdock, and Matt has issues. For more background, you can check out Hands, An Act of Abandonment, and Forward.

This is going to be the last fic in this series, I think. It's looking like it'll be a few chapters, and hopefully I can wrap up what I wanted to do here. Thanks so much to everyone who's read and commented so far!

* * *

Hindsight's 20/20 - Chapter 1

* * *

When it comes right down to it, Foggy thinks as the latest sip of whiskey burns down his throat, the world's just not fair.

That's it. That's all there is to it. The one maxim from which all other maxims ought to spring, cause it's the essence of truth, distilled: the world's not fair.

If it _was_ , his best friend wouldn't have a splash of red on his jaw like that, scraped-raw red, like some asshole knocked him into rough brownstone in an alley full of garbage last night. He wouldn't have torn knuckles or the bruise that's fading out to old-paper yellow on his cheekbone. He wouldn't be sitting there in Josie's looking like a PSA for battered children.

Next to them, Karen's upended the bottle, and the last few drops of amber liquid cling to the opening and then slide into her glass. "That went fast," she announces, voice thick with drink, well-pleased.

And Matt says, "Josie, would you mind?" and half-turns toward the bar, smile all charm. He pays when she brings it; Foggy doesn't see the bill he presses into her hand, but Matt says he doesn't need change.

His best friend's hands are on the bottle, then, all long-fingered grace. He's working to open it when he stills, suddenly, and it takes Foggy a second to figure out why.

He can barely hear it, himself. The music's a background hum on the jukebox, something low and slow and not quite blues; under that, there's the mutter of conversation, but Foggy strains his ears harder, trying to catch what Matt's hearing.

He manages just a hint of it, just the tail end – something about the devil, and something else about the cops. The last part's louder, raised in drunken indignation, clear even above the music: "They need to get that asshole off the streets, already."

And Matt's got his head tipped to one side, like he's listening – but it's not the guy in the back he's facing. It's Foggy. Over the top of dark glasses, there's a slight crease between his eyes, like he's in the middle of a particularly involved deposition.

"Hey," says Karen, and slides the bottle from Matt's unresisting fingers. "I got it. Let me."

Matt starts a little, like he forgot he was holding it at all. "Thanks," he says, and while Karen opens the newest round, Matt finds a square of napkin to torture on the tabletop. His fingers run along the edge, picking at it like a scab, leaving white flecks of paper against the wood, and Foggy feels – guilty, almost, for just a second.

Cause sure, he was pissed. _Sure_ , he said some things. Who the hell likes being lied to?

But if the world was fair, Matt wouldn't get that _look_ on his face so often now, the gauging court-room diplomatic look that comes whenever the conversation shifts too close to their last fight.

His best friend wouldn't watch so closely, like maybe he expects Foggy to walk out the door again.

* * *

They're half drunk and halfway home – caught Karen a taxi three blocks back and bundled her in, and now it's just the two of them, steps unsteady.

Once, they would have been leaning up against each other, to help keep them both standing. Once, Foggy would've had Matt's arm the whole trip back.

But that's the hell of it. His best friend's never needed the help – not really. He's got super-hearing straight out of the pages of a comic book, vibrations and temperature and a world on fire and probably a hundred other things to help him navigate. He doesn't need Foggy could've-been-a-butcher Nelson to lead the way.

Foggy keeps thinking it right until Matt steps off the sidewalk against a red light and lifts his foot to keep going. It's late enough that there's not a ton of oncoming traffic, but _Jesus_.

Foggy makes a grab for his arm, closes on the sleeve of Matt's suit. " _Curb_ ," he says, urgently, and remembers, through the haze of alcohol and the distance of time, sitting on the steps at Columbia, long ago. He remembers Matt saying he gets the spins, and he counts how many drinks Matt's had tonight. He wonders what that'll do to a precision navigation system, and before he can think it through enough to second-guess, he says, "Do you want –?"

Foggy's hand is cautious; he doesn't clamp down. He just finds Matt's arm and lingers there, a question unfinished.

And Matt? Matt gets this look on his face. It's hard to read, exactly, with the glasses, but his mouth is slack, and he opens and closes it a couple of times, like he can't quite figure out what he wants to say. "Thanks," he manages, finally, like he's trying the word on for size.

Matt follows the seam on Foggy's sleeve with his fingers, traces it up to the crook of an elbow. His hand closes there, wary, and Foggy thinks: maybe not _completely_ unfair.

* * *

The next day, Matt winces every time someone speaks above a whisper, and Foggy swears he'll never drink again. Karen downs cup after cup of black coffee, and every one of them skips breakfast, because food has never sounded more unappealing.

But by eleven the hangover's a thing of the past and they're all feeling a bit more human. Foggy's not used to mornings without cereal or waffles or _something_ before noon, so he scrawls an "Out to Lunch" sign for the door and announces they're heading out early. No arguments, or he's going to eat the office equipment, and they really can't afford for him to eat the office equipment, so pancakes. _Stat_.

As he steps from the front stoop, something from last night stirs at the back of Foggy's brain, surfacing through recollection dimmed by alcohol: the tentative touch of Matt's hand, shaky and grateful.

He circles over to Matt's left like he's on autopilot. Offers his elbow calm and easy, natural as taking a breath.

Matt's saying, "We'll have to take another look through the Larson files when we get back. We must have missed something," and _Foggy_ would have missed something if he didn't know to listen.

But the sentence hitches, just a little there in the middle, right before Matt accepts the offered arm. When his fingers tighten their hold, so very careful, Foggy takes back every nasty thought he ever had about the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: This chapter took a lot of nudging to get it where I wanted it, and I'm still not entirely sure it ended up... cohesive? More reservations about this bit than most of the rest of the series so far, but I couldn't pinpoint what it was that bothered me, so... here it is.

Sorry for the wait, and thanks again so much to the folks who are reading and commenting. You're all amazing! :)

* * *

Hindsight's 20/20 - Chapter 2

* * *

Matt's apartment is full of flickering shadows.

Foggy got used to it a long time ago: the billboard outside the window casts enough light to see by, and Matt doesn't need to pay extra in electricity bills just because he has a friend over. So now, the kitchen's cut in two by the bulb from the refrigerator, one side brilliant white and the other washed out grey, following the dividing line of the open door.

"Hey, Murdock," says Foggy, conversational. "I'm gonna let you in on a secret." He nudges the door to the fridge closed with his hip, and it takes the light with it. "That big white box in your kitchen? Some people put food in those."

Matt makes an indignant sound from the living room, and Foggy stifles a grin as he pries open the mason jar on the counter. He fishes out two tea bags by touch, eyes still readjusting now that the fridge light's gone, then drops them into the waiting mugs. "I have food in there," says Matt.

"You have jam in there," Foggy informs him. "Still. _Only_."

Outside the window, Foggy bets the screen's playing that stupid cell phone ad again, because the light goes pale purple. He can just picture the annoyingly cheerful cartoon phone dancing down in the right-hand corner.

"There's leftovers," Matt tells him.

"You mean the takeout ravioli you had for lunch?" Foggy turns off the stove, a quick twist of the wrist, then grabs the handle of the saucepan on the burner. He sloshes just-boiled water into the mugs with the tea bags.

Matt huffs, like he's trying to be offended. "There's –"

"—a great, white expanse from which no snacks can emerge? A wasteland, devoid even of beer?" Purple to orange, goes the light, and Foggy takes advantage of the extra illumination to open the cabinet above the stove. "Stop me when I'm getting warm."

"You're somewhere in Siberia," Matt laughs, "But I'll pick up beer tomorrow. Okay?"

The sugar's in that cabinet, and not much else. Foggy's eyes skim the empty corners of it; he frowns, then opens the sugar bag to scrape out a spoonful for his tea. "They reserve the sixth level of hell for people who lie about beer, Matt. Pretty sure Dante wrote that."

Foggy stirs, then takes a sip and grimaces. He needs more sugar than Matt has in the apartment to make this new blend palatable, so he gives up on trying and puts the box away.

"Trapped in burning tombs with the heretics?" Matt's voice is mild. "Seems pretty harsh."

"Hey," Foggy shrugs. "It's your religion."

Foggy drops the saucepan and the spoon in the sink, and he turns back to pick up the mugs of tea.

The light outside shifts again, orange to white, and the kitchen brightens incrementally. The soft glow illuminates details that the shadows have hidden: a curve of crumpled paper, reflective and smooth. A bracelet, the kind of craft kids do in grade school to bring home to their parents.

"This is new," Foggy remarks, and collects the tea to rejoin Matt in the living room.

There's a pause; Matt tilts his head. "The oolong?" he ventures. "Not really. We got it at that Chinese market, remember? You said the cashier was cute."

"The bracelet," Foggy clarifies, and bends down to set the tea on Matt's coffee table. The table's a new arrival, second-hand from a flea market down on 39th Street: round and thick, missing varnish where it's been peeled away on one half, a replacement for whatever the hell happened to trash the old one. Foggy's still not clear on that point. "Very playground chic. Some kid you save want to say thank you?"

He flops down onto the couch by Matt, stretches out like he always does, and it's only when he glances over, expecting an answer, that he realizes how still Matt's gone. The screen outside the window changes again, and the line of Matt's jaw tints blue, like fake moonlight in a Hollywood blockbuster. His lips are pressed flat, and one of his hands is holding onto the arm of the couch like he expects it to try and throw him off.

The line of Matt's throat shifts when he swallows. "No," he says, finally.

Foggy just watches him for a minute, the careful posture, the delicate blue light caught on the rims of Matt's glasses.

And he almost doesn't ask. Cause the thing is, every time he asks now, Matt _answers_. Even when he doesn't want to. Even when the words catch in his throat and come out unwilling, like they're being pulled along with a hook and a fishing line.

But before Foggy can get a word of logic in edgewise to his own brain, he finds himself saying, "Then what gives?"

Matt looks away, toward the windows, so all Foggy can see of him is the side of his jaw, where a muscle's gone tight.

"I, uh," says Matt. "I made it for someone. A long time ago."

Matt's shoulders are hunched, like he's bracing for a blow. With a sudden warm wave of sympathy, Foggy thinks he understands – reaches out to set a hand on one of those shoulders and feels his best friend relax into the touch, just a little. "Your dad, huh?"

It's a full-body flinch. Foggy feels it through the palm of his hand, and he regrets asking, suddenly. Regrets saying anything at all. He opens his mouth to wave it off: nevermind, and thanks for the tea, and hey, let's talk about advertising for the firm, cause we could really do with some paying clients. Rates for banner ads online aren't half bad.

But before he gets out the first part, Matt's answering, feeling out the reply like it's cutting up the inside of his mouth. "My teacher. Stick." The light goes white again, and Matt's voice sounds like it's being dragged over a bed of gravel. "He, uh. He didn't want it."

Foggy glances back toward the kitchen, where he can't make out the bracelet anymore, for the shadows. That makes the thing – how old? And here it still is, only slightly crumpled, out where Matt can find it every day.

Foggy's a lawyer by trade. He knows when there's more to a story from a witness. But he shuts his idiot mouth, because Matt's strung tight as a mistuned guitar, and there beneath Foggy's fingers, he can feel the start of a tremor.

So instead he rubs his hand in little circles, like he used to do when his kid sister had a nightmare, until Matt's jaw unclenches. Then he leans forward and picks up his tea again, deliberately casual. "You're almost out of oolong, you know." Foggy takes a sip, and the tea is bitter and strong. "Wanna take a field trip sometime? We might get the same cashier."

* * *

Foggy's not that into baguettes. They're too crunchy for him, not enough chewy center. Bread should be all about how it complements PB&J, or whether it works as toast with sunny-side up eggs. But Matt – Matt'll take a baguette over white or wheat or just about anything.

So when Foggy walks in the door marked with the paper sign that reads Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law, it's a baguette he's got slung over his shoulder like a baseball bat. He waves it like a baton when he steps into Matt's office, uses it to knock on Matt's desk in a jaunty, upbeat tune.

Matt's got his lips quirked, like the near-disaster of last night's conversation is forgotten. One eyebrow's visible above the rim of the glasses. "What's this?"

He can probably identify the kind of flour through smell alone, so Foggy says, "Bread percussion," and drops the paper bag cradling the loaf on Matt's desk. "Find a pretzel tuba, Murdock, we're starting a band."

Matt hums softly, appreciative. "Smells good."

"It's from the new bakery by my place," Foggy announces, and he's already heading for the door again, on his way to the coffee pot. If he hurries, there'll still be time to sneak in a first cup before Karen comes in and transforms perfectly edible beans into sludge. "Just think – you'll have an excuse to actually put that jam on something."

Matt's laughter follows him out of the room, light and startled.

Foggy counts it as a win.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Well, this chapter kind of wandered a bit. Not sure it ended up doing what I needed it to do, or that it's entirely on theme, but I figured it I sat on it anymore I'd end up never posting it. So. Here it is!

* * *

Hindsight's 20/20 - Chapter 3

* * *

It's like someone compressed a lightning storm in a jar, shook it up, and then let it out all at once into the world.

That's how Foggy feels when he watches Matt train: the understated grace, the raw power, the slim lines of him sharp and dangerous. It scared the hell out of him, the first time he set foot into Fogwell's gym.

But it's scared him less every time since, until now there's only fascination and the easy banter that drifts between them, Foggy sitting on the folded gym mats while Matt beats the living hell out the punching bag.

It's comfortable, almost. Somehow, they've gotten back to that point – taken a near break and turned it into an easy give and take.

They won't ever be the same as they were back in Columbia, Foggy thinks. That ship's sailed so far he can't see it over the horizon anymore. Gone are the days when Foggy didn't keep a first aid kit. Gone is never needing to tune into the police scanner, trying to anticipate when Matt might stagger in the window at 2 am, bleeding half to death.

But this has become a part of their life now – against all odds, become the new baseline for normal. Instead of all-night study sessions the week before an exam or dodging the asshole paralegal at Landman and Zack, his best friend's a vigilante in a devil suit.

No big deal. Business as usual, move along.

Foggy will never stop being amazed by the mind's capacity for adaptation.

So he listens to the sound of Matt's fists on the punching bag, thunder that rumbles against the walls. He's really going for it now, slick with sweat and short of breath. Foggy figures times like these, Matt doesn't want a running commentary – so he lets his eyes wander, instead.

They pass over the old boxing ring, still standing; over a pair of sneakers forgotten near the door, a hole in one heel. Then come the posters papering the walls, ancient and curling, and Foggy sits looking at the one that reads Creel vs. Murdock. He's seen it half a dozen times – knows every line of it.

But the thought sneaks up on him, suddenly, for the first time ever – that maybe Matt _hasn't_.

Maybe Matt doesn't know it's there at all.

It takes just about everything he has not to interrupt – to wait it out until Matt towels off the back of his neck, stretches, and comes over to deposit himself on the gym mats next to Foggy.

"Nice one," Foggy makes himself say. "No one needs to fear _that_ punching bag in dark alleys anymore."

"Just wait till round two," Matt tells him, with that little quirk of his lips that means he's trying not to smile, but is actually really pleased. This time, the expression lasts for only a second; then he tips his head Foggy's way, considering. "Go on," he says, and the tone is cautious.

Foggy snorts. "You know, I kind of feel like that's cheating." Because really. How is it fair that Matt can tell when he's holding back from saying something?

He's going to have to do breathing exercises. Kung Fu masters do breathing exercises, right? There's got to be a method out there for fooling entirely-too-observant, super-sense-having best friends.

But that's for later. For right now, Matt's turned his way, and with the glasses off, it's easy to see how intent that stare is, drifting somewhere over Foggy's left shoulder. Matt gets this look in the courtroom sometimes, when the prosecution has him on his toes: sharp like a new razor blade, focused and waiting for something to go wrong.

Even the suggestion of a smile is gone. "Sorry," says Matt, and licks at his lips. "You don't have to say if you don't want."

Foggy waves him off, a flap of one hand. "Guess it's a good thing I want to, huh?" He thinks about easing into it – then decides what the hell, better to get it over with, and rushes in headlong. "You know there are posters up in here, right?"

A crease appears between Matt's eyebrows; this was definitely not where he was expecting the conversation to go. "Uh," says Matt, and tips his head, considering. "Yeah. Close to twenty, I guess? I can hear them moving in the draft under the door."

Foggy's good with words. He thinks on his feet, and he knows how to handle a witness. He can do funny, and he can do charming. He can even do snarky wiseass when someone has it coming. So he knows about eleven ways to cushion this next part, just off the top of his head – but he's pretty sure Matt would rather he just get to the point. So he says: "Did you know one's for your dad's last fight?"

He gets the answer in Matt's expression – in eyes that go huge and startled, in a mouth that opens and says nothing at all. Matt turns toward the wrong wall, expectant, and Foggy's heart does something strange and painful in his chest.

"Here," he says, and reaches out to bring Matt to the poster with his father's name. "This one."

It's a miracle the thing is still intact. It's taken as much of a beating as the people who fought here, Foggy thinks – but somehow, it's held on for this, to be here years later, at just this instant.

Matt's fingers aren't steady when he touches the paper. He traces the letters, follows the lines of the ink. He's like a man in church, every motion devout and solemn. Foggy watches right up until he realizes Matt's eyelashes are damp; then he looks away, feeling like an intruder.

It's a long time before Matt speaks again. When he does, his voice is soft. "Did I ever tell you about the fight?"

Foggy shakes his head – adds, on instinct, "I just shook my head," then kicks himself, because he forgets that he doesn't need to do it anymore, when they're alone. It's hard to break years of habit.

Matt doesn't seem to notice. "It was a big crowd," he says. "For dad, anyway." His words come distant and thoughtful, and for a second Foggy wonders what that's got to be like – parsing a memory with enhanced senses, from a time before he really knew what to do with them. "He didn't draw so many people, usually. It smelled like – sweat, and beer. Popcorn. All those voices together were like… like the ocean. That roar, you know? Something bigger than you."

Foggy dares to look up again, and Matt's staring into some middle distance. It's as though he can look straight through the papers on the wall to something no one else can see.

"They yelled his name, after. The whole crowd was going crazy." Matt's lips come up at the corners, something that wants to be a smile but doesn't quite make it. "I was so proud of him."

Foggy reaches up to take Matt by the shoulder; the bare skin's hot to the touch where the strapped sleeves of the workout shirt end. Foggy can feel the little shudder that goes through him.

"He shouldn't have won that fight, Foggy," Matt says, very quietly.

"Hey," Foggy tells him. "One last hurrah. Your old man went out on a high note, right?"

"No," Matt says. "You don't understand." To Foggy's horror, his voice breaks on the last word. "He would've taken the money. He _had_ before. If I'd just, just kept my mouth shut –"

It slots into place like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle: so clear. So _easy_. And finally, Foggy can look at all those tiny pieces and tell what the picture was supposed to be. He feels his mouth fall open – hears his own startled intake of breath.

"Oh, Christ," Foggy says, stunned.

But Matt's still going, voice ragged and shading into desperate. " – he would've been fine. He would've come _home_. And I'd have, have sewn him up and we – we would've been."

That's it. That's as far as he gets. Matt cuts off the last of the sentence like he can't bear to hear it out loud, as though even the thought of some other possibility is too painful. He presses his lips together, and then, like that's not enough to keep the words in, he lifts a hand and covers his mouth.

The knuckles on that hand are bruised and torn, black and red against pale skin. Foggy remembers years ago, sitting on the steps of Columbia. He remembers the warm fuzz of alcohol, and a quiet confession, and he wonders how Jack Murdock would feel about his son getting the shit beat out of him in dark alleys every night.

Foggy swallows, finds that he has a lump in his throat, and tightens his grip on Matt's shoulder. "Hey," he says. "You listen to me. Your dad? He made a _choice_."

"Because I asked him to." Matt turns, tries to twist away, but Foggy's having none of that. He puts the other hand on Matt's other shoulder and wheels Matt around to face him.

"Because he _believed_ in something," Foggy insists. "Sound familiar? Wanting to fight for something you know's right?" Matt's breathing hard, like he's trying to pull it together. "Looks like you took after him more than you think, buddy."

All at once, the tension goes – Matt bows his head like it's too heavy to hold up anymore, and he closes his eyes. And Foggy? Foggy takes his cue. Steps right in and wraps both arms around him, tight.

He expects some kind of protest, even if it's a half-hearted, "I'm fine," so it says whole encyclopedias full that he doesn't even get that much. Matt's fingers just dig into Foggy's shirt, holding on like he's going to float away.

They stay that way for a long time, long enough that when they break apart, Matt's not shaking anymore. His eyes are dry again, and when he says, "Thanks, Foggy," his voice is almost steady.

They take the poster down from the wall.

It rides home in Matt's gym bag, and Foggy watches when he lays it out, reverently, beside his father's fight clothes in the locked closet.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: Thank you guys so much for sticking with this fic, and to everyone who's stopped by to leave comments! You're all awesome! 3

* * *

Hindsight's 20/20 - Chapter 4

* * *

It's 8:30 in the morning, and Foggy's halfway through his second cup of coffee.

The folding metal chair underneath him is a tragedy of human engineering; his back already aches, and his legs are starting to go numb. By noon, he'll be up and pacing around every ten minutes or so, just to get a break from the torture.

Outside the office windows, some birds are nesting in the eaves; they haven't shut up since he set foot inside. They're calling back and forth in what he figures is birdie shorthand for "Feed me! Feed me!" and Foggy knows how they feel. He woke up too late for breakfast, so now his future's looking pretty bleak: a cereal bar with raisins, the very last one in the box. He's avoided it for a month and a half, because every other flavor is better than the goopy, sticky mess the raisins become on the inside of the wrapper.

So Foggy sits there with the cereal bar in his hand, considering. If he walks down the block to the little coffee shop where the baristas already know him by name, he might still be able to salvage this morning.

It's not much of a decision.

"Hey guys," Foggy says, and tosses the cereal bar back into his desk drawer, to wait another month until he gets _really_ desperate. Then he stands and makes for the door of his office – pokes his head out into the reception area. "Breakfast run. You want any –"

He never finishes the sentence.

In the most shocking turn of events all week – more shocking, even, than Matt showing up at 3 am to use his shower, reeking of sewage and bitterly cursing the failed bank robbers who thought a manhole was an acceptable escape route – the front door to their office swings open.

Karen startles behind her desk, glances up and meets Foggy's gaze. In his office, Matt's got his head canted, as though listening. Someday, Foggy promises himself – someday, they'll have enough clients so that someone opening the front door doesn't make them all gape like kids at the zoo.

An old guy ambles in, and Foggy evaluates him unconsciously: loose clothes; mean lines bracketing his mouth; hat tugged down over his eyes; bad sunglasses and a cane like Matt's. He doesn't look like he's got money, which kind of sucks, because keeping the electricity on's been hard and they really don't need any more _pro bono_ cases.

But Foggy puts on his best client-friendly face, cheerful and helpful even if the old guy can't see it, and draws himself up to say hi – because, well, he's still got his head sticking out of his own office doorway. It's kind of weird if he just ducks back in and lets Karen handle it.

Only the old guy doesn't let him get that far. He holds up a hand at Foggy, palm out, like he's teaching a dog to heel – cuts him off before he says a word, like the cane and the glasses are for show. "Save it," he says, dismissive.

"Um," says Karen, rallying valiantly. "This is Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law. How can we help you?"

"You can shut your mouth and mind your business," the old guy tells her.

Foggy stares for a minute, while his mouth catches up to his ears. "It kind of _is_ her business," he points out, tone dry. "You know, professionally? Like she works in the reception area of a law office or something?"

But the old guy's not listening. He's heading straight for Matt's office – where Matt's not sitting down anymore, poring over papers. He's already moving out from behind his desk, hands fisted at his side, feet braced wide and shoulders set, like he's trying not to be in a defensive posture.

"You," Matt tells the old guy, "had better have a _damn good reason_ for coming here."

It's a tone Matt would never in a million years use on a prospective client. It's a tone he'd never use on someone he considered a friend, and that sets a spike of alarm through Foggy, bright and sharp and worrying.

But whatever comes next is cut off; the old guy reaches back, nice and casual, to kick the door shut behind him.

The second it clicks closed, Karen turns to Foggy. "What the hell was _that_ about?"

She looks scandalized – looks, frankly, like she's about two seconds from storming into Matt's office and booting the old bastard out on the curb. And while Foggy finds that pretty appealing, actually, his brain's kicked into gear and done the math. Cause, really, how many blind old men could Matt Murdock possibly know?

"Search me," Foggy mutters, but his gaze is trained on the window into Matt's office. He looks Stick over again – _really_ looks, seeing things he missed before. There's lean muscle in the arms and understated arrogance in the way he holds himself.

But more than that – Matt's gone stiff, the way he gets when he's upset. There's a muscle working in his jaw as he snaps a reply. Foggy's never wanted to be able to read lips before, but it's suddenly a skill he wouldn't mind having in his repertoire.

Karen's hovering – concerned, and angry. She's right, Foggy thinks, to be both.

They should probably go back to their respective desks. They should probably pretend, as the conversation drags on, a silent show on the other side of the glass, that they have actual work to do.

But as soon as Foggy thinks it, as soon as the idea occurs to him, Stick's hand whips out, quick as a lick of a spreading fire.

Matt doesn't block; the blow takes him across the cheek, hard, and his right foot staggers back an inch. If Karen wasn't here, Foggy thinks, he'd have a ringside seat for the show of the century. He knows that stance from long afternoons at Fogwell's. He knows the way Matt gets worked up, heat and tension, like a spring waiting to uncoil.

Karen's going for the phone on her desk – or maybe the mace, which is on her keychain beside it. Foggy's going for Matt's office door, feet moving without taking the time to consult his common sense. He's not sure what he plans to do against a fully certified, grade-A ninja, but before he can get there, Matt saves him the trouble.

He stalks to the door, face mottling red, and jerks it wide open.

"Get out," Matt growls.

"For _them_?" There's laughter just under Stick's voice. If you peeled away the top layer, it would well up like a flooding drain. "What a goddamn waste."

Matt bites off each word, precise and fierce. "Get. _Out_."

Stick walks like he's on a stroll through the park. He seems to have forgotten he's holding the cane; his feet lead the way, not the tip of it. He idles to a stop just in front of Foggy – reaches out to pat his face, proprietary and condescending.

"Always knew he'd ruin himself," Stick says, conversationally. "Just figured he'd have better taste over what he did it for."

Peripherally, Foggy's aware that Matt looks ready to tear his teacher's throat out. Peripherally, he's aware of the way Karen's holding the mace, like all she needs is an excuse.

But Foggy's got this. He steps back from hands with long fingers and sharp knuckles, skin sagging with age. "I think 'get out' is pretty clear," he says, tone forceful and jovial both at once. "Need help finding the door?"

Stick tips his head to one side, and he makes a quiet "heh," sound, like someone told a joke.

Then he lets himself out.

"Who the hell was that asshole?" Karen's saying, at the same time Foggy asks, "Matt, are you _okay_?"

And Matt just kind of _deflates_ a little, like all the air's been let out of him. Just slides against the doorjamb of his office, leaning – and Matt's not a leaner. Never once, in all the years Foggy's known him, has he seen Matt Murdock lean in a doorway.

"Fine," says Matt, and licks at his lips. "I'm fine. He's, uh. An old friend."

"Like hell that's a friend," Karen declares, and she's across the room before Matt can protest. Her fingers are on Matt's cheek, where the bruise is already going purple, and Foggy can't help but be a little awed by her zeal and a little jealous at her boldness.

But Matt just shrugs – a helpless lift of one shoulder, like: hey, what can you do? Sometimes people are dicks.

It's such a defeated gesture. It's such an _accepting_ gesture.

Foggy thinks of a bracelet sitting on the counter, and Matt's words, soft and rough: "He didn't want it."

"She's right, dude," Foggy tells him, and there must be something in his voice, because Matt's head tips up toward him as soon as he begins to speak. "You could line up the definitions of 'friend' from every dictionary in print, and not one of them would cover whatever the hell that just was."

Matt's quiet for a second, head down. "Sorry," he says at last. "What he said about you two, wasn't – wasn't called for."

Foggy and Karen exchange a long, silent glance. It's a glance that says: really, Murdock?

After all those years of being the only one to possess that particular expression, Foggy feels a moment of elation at the fact that finally, someone knows how it feels. Finally, someone else is looking at Matthew Murdock's self-deprecating bullshit and realizing what a crime it is.

"Intervention," Karen snaps. "Breakfast time. Now."

"Karen," says Matt, and holds his hands up as though to ward the suggestion away. "We just opened shop. We can't close up any time we want to go out to eat." But Foggy's reaching for Matt's jacket already – meets him in the doorway and drapes it over his still-raised hands.

"You're outvoted, buddy," Foggy tells him, forcefully cheerful, and slings an arm around Matt's shoulders. He feels the tension lingering there – feels the way Matt holds out, for just a second, before he relaxes and leans into it.

Foggy's never understood the need to beat up assholes on street corners in the dark shadows of the night.

Rationally? Sure. Practically? Sure. But on an emotional, empathetic level? He just couldn't picture ever wanting to put his fist in someone else's face.

Now, Foggy thinks, he finally gets it. So he has Stick to thank for that, at least.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Notes: This is the last chapter, and the last fic in this series. Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with me so far. I hope you all enjoyed reading as much as I did putting it together. :)

As a side note, this series has more call-backs to previous chapters and previous in-series fics than anything I've ever written. Sneaking them in brought me a weird amount of joy.

And finally: thanks again to everyone who read and commented! You're all amazing. 3

* * *

Hindsight's 20/20 - Chapter 5

* * *

Matt's apartment smells like spices – like coriander and cumin and kaffir lime, powerful and distinct.

The baguette's gone by now, and the jam in the fridge – and by the way Matt's downing the tom kha kai, like it'll evaporate if he waits too long between bites, Foggy's willing to bet that not many groceries have landed on the sterile white shelves of Matt's refrigerator in the between time.

Foggy's tired, suddenly – more tired than that awful stretch at Columbia, when he was up for fifty-two hours straight after two all-nighters and his final exam in Advanced Negotiation Public Policy.

He doesn't want to say what he's about to say, and he knows damn well Matt won't want to answer. But it's the first time in two days they've been together somewhere private, and Foggy needs to be sure.

"So, Wednesday," he says, trying for a conversational tone. "That was Stick, huh?" Matt freezes with the spoon halfway to his lips – tips his head, like he's waiting for the rest. "He always been that way?"

The light outside the apartment window shifts, orange to white, and picks out the lines of Matt's face in backlit detail. The expression there is strained – trying but failing not to give too much away.

Matt's hand wavers; the spoon dips slightly downward. "Yeah." Matt takes the bite, chews and swallows – buys himself a few seconds. "He's, he's always been kind of pushy."

Once upon a time – and by once upon a time, Foggy means a couple months ago – he would've taken that as an invitation to go fishing. He'd have set up his rod and bucket on the pier by Matt's mind, baited the hook, and found out how much he could reel in. And Matt, stalling and stuttering, trying to prevent a repeat occurrence of the night Foggy walked out his door, would have let him.

But hindsight's 20/20. Foggy's learned a lot about his best friend, since then.

So he just says, "That was a hell of a lot more than pushy," and he leaves it at that.

Thirty minutes later, after the takeout containers are nestled together on the empty center shelf of Matt's fridge, Matt turns to him without any prompting at all. And he says: "Did I ever tell you about the day he showed up at St. Agnes?"

* * *

They go camping the next month, just the two of them.

Karen's at a seminar in Jersey, and it's a long weekend, so on Saturday morning, Foggy calls Matt up and says, "Hey Murdock, let's go eat bugs in the wilderness."

The campground's pretty, and Foggy figures there's plenty for Matt to appreciate, too.

The smell of cypress is thick in the air, a rich, sharp scent that brings back memories of Columbia's campus green. The trees are high; Foggy can hear the birds calling in the branches, voices rising up and up, toward the high vault of a blue sky streaked with lazy afternoon light.

Neither of them know how to pitch the tent they borrowed from Foggy's uncle, so Foggy makes a kind of canopy instead – ties the corners to tree branches and calls it done.

"Close enough," says Foggy, shrugging. "No one's perfect the first time." Then he adds, natural as breathing, "I just shrugged," and he doesn't feel weird for doing it – not really. Not anymore.

Matt's fingers explore the sides of their not-tent, tracing the ties that hold it, face full of carefully banked laughter. "Foggy," he says, mock-serious. "I don't know if this is going to keep out bears."

"You think a bit of canvas was gonna keep out bears in the first place?" Foggy says, as he starts spreading out the tarp. It was supposed to cover up the floor of the tent; now it'll just have to _be_ the floor of the tent. "That's your job, Murdock. You're on bear-fighting duty."

A smile creeps onto Matt's lips, crooked and warm. "What would you do without me?"

"Play dead," Foggy says, breezily. "Face down, hands over neck. The internet tells me so."

It's full dark in two more hours, and the blue arc of the sky above them is replaced with a wash of stars. They're both full of charred hotdogs and Matt's fancy German beer, stretched out on blankets by the fire pit, and Foggy's threading the first dozen marshmallows onto sticks. It occurs to him that Matt can probably smell it – sticky and sweet under the wood smoke – and Foggy's almost jealous.

"I'm telling you," Foggy's saying. "People go camping all the time. Adults do."

"And pack half their bodyweight in marshmallows?" Matt counters. "You brought ten bags." His tone's teasing; he's got his head pillowed on one arm, loose and relaxed in a way Foggy hasn't seen him in a long time. The glasses have been folded and set aside, revealing the yellowing bruise on Matt's cheekbone and the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

"Three times their bodyweight," Foggy insists, with the best courtroom-sincere voice he can muster.

But Matt must be able to sense the huff of air from suppressed laughter or something, because he says: "See? You can't even say it with a straight face."

Foggy snorts. "Yeah, well – you can't even point out that I can't say it with a straight face with a straight face."

The campfire licks at the night sky, casts golden light over the blankets and the ground and the nine unopened bags of marshmallows. The world's gone soft and distant, the way it gets after Foggy's had a few, and Matt's laughing beside him, still his best friend – still, against all odds, the dork he roomed with in college.

It's just that now, Foggy knows the other parts of him, too.

"Objection," Matt tells him, unbearably fond. "Immaterial to the case at hand."

Foggy shoves a marshmallow-stick into Matt's palm and curls his fingers closed around it. "Overruled," he declares. "Eat your dessert, counselor, or I'm holding you in contempt."

When Matt plays along, the little white sweets catch fire and flare like the sun.


End file.
